


Now Art Thou What Thou Art

by Alley_Skywalker



Category: Romeo And Juliet - All Media Types, Romeo And Juliet - Shakespeare
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst with a Happy Ending, Canonical Character Death, Feelings Realization, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mercutio Lives, Somebody Lives/Not Everyone Dies, some background R/J
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-10
Updated: 2020-01-10
Packaged: 2021-02-25 17:27:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,450
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22119775
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Alley_Skywalker/pseuds/Alley_Skywalker
Summary: Mercutio doesn't die in the duel with Tybalt, but the ordeal that follows leads Romeo to some realizations and, hopefully, a happy(er) ending.
Relationships: Mercutio/Romeo Montague
Comments: 4
Kudos: 45
Collections: Romeo & Juliet / Romeo et Juliette Fanfic Exchange 2019





	Now Art Thou What Thou Art

**Author's Note:**

  * For [shadowintheshade](https://archiveofourown.org/users/shadowintheshade/gifts).



> Inspired by my recipient's prompt of "Mercutio joins Romeo in exile." Aside from the different outcome of the Tybalt-Mercutio duel, there's also the AU element that the duel takes place before Romeo is able to marry Juliet, not after.

Romeo had not expected his life to fall apart on the day he was to get married. Somehow, instead of roses, wedding vows and the marriage bed, he got blood, fear and pain. He had been on the way to see Friar Lawrence, where he would be wed to his beautiful Juliet, when he heard the commotion several blocks ahead. He thought to ignore it, but something made him turn in that direction. Benvolio would tell him that recognizing voices at that distance would be unlikely, and yet, something still told Romeo he needed to see what was happening. Something called to him, and he turned off-course and ran. 

When he turned the corner into he city square, he was confronted by the sight of Benvolio and Mercutio facing off against Tybalt and half a dozen other Capulets. Benvolio had a look of concern on his face, while Mercutio, flippant as always, was saying something to Tybalt, which made Tybalt’s face scrunch up, like he had smelled a foul excrement. The other Capulets did not seem particularly concerned, whooping and goading the pair into action. 

On seeing Romeo, Tybalt shoved past Mercutio. Tybalt called him a scoundrel and Romeo knew what that meant, knew what honor demanded. The heat sweltered around them, and something told Romeo he was making a mistake when he refused Tybalt’s challenge. But Juliet’s beautiful face swam in front of his eyes and he thought, _fighting's not worth it._ What good would it be to get killed or to kill his bride’s cousin? “Good Capulet, be satisfied,” Romeo said in conclusion of his refusal, hoping that the sacrifice of his honor would sate Tybalt and no blood would need to be spilled. 

He turned to leave. He should have known better. He should have known Mercutio would never let such a thing go, that his sense of loyalty would drive him to an extreme. The clash of steal on steal made him turn back. Benvolio stood to the side, frozen, perhaps in indecision, perhaps from fear of making things worse. Romeo’s heart seized with fear and he ran to try and stop what he had already put into motion by laying down his sword. 

Romeo had not expected his life to fall apart when he had been willing to sacrifice so much to keep it intact. But with one swift flick of Tybalt’s sword under Romeo’s arm, everything shattered. 

*

“A plague on both your houses!” Mercutio was pushing him away, even as blood soaked his doublet red, hurt and betrayal mixing with the pain in his eyes. 

Romeo watched, stunned, as Mercutio hid his face into Benvolio’s shoulder and asked to be taken inside. They stumbled gingerly toward the nearest street corner. Romeo’s knees went weak and he collapsed onto the cobblestones, his hands scraping raw against the rough ground. Guilt and fear made him nauseous. _It’s because of me. He’s hurt because of me._ Romeo had never thought that love might make him weak. Was it love at all or a madness?

It didn’t matter. Not in that moment. In that moment all that mattered was the pain in Mercutio’s eyes and the blood covering his clothes and the hand he had put over his side. Romeo stumbled to his feet and ran after his friends. He couldn’t let Mercutio die with a rift between them. Romeo wouldn’t be able to survive it. 

*  
There was blood, blood everywhere, over Romeo’s hands and Mercutio’s shirt, the wad of fabric Benvolio was pressing against the wound. “Where is that surgeon?” Benvolio muttered, frantic. He looked around, trying to see where they could take Mercutio for shelter. Mercutio had collapsed as soon as they rounded the corner, whispering Romeo’s name and several curses. That was how Romeo had found them: Benvolio leaning over Mercutio, his doublet half-off and the sleeve of his shirt torn as he scrambled to staunch the bleeding. Romeo knelt beside them and cradled Mercutio’s head in his lap, all the things he had wanted to say getting stuck in his throat. 

At some point, Mercutio had lost consciousness. Romeo called his name, again and again but he was not responding. Romeo fumbled for a vein in his neck and couldn’t find it at first, then, when he finally did, couldn’t find a pulse, the pale skin still under his hands. Romeo bit his lip until it bled, unwilling to believe what was happening. He looked up and met Benvolio’s eyes, shook his head in denial. 

Benvolio looked at him blankly. “No…” 

Tears welled up in Romeo’s eyes and the world swam, devoid of sounds and sensations, only the weight of Mercutio’s head in his lap and the absence of the expected pulse under his hands. Crimson on Mercutio’s clothes, on the ground, on his and Benvolio’s hands. It bled into everything, tearing Romeo apart from the inside. 

When he looked up, there was crimson on the street corner – a red cloak over a read doublet, brandishing a sword stained red. _Tybalt._

Romeo jumped to his feet. Benvolio was shouting something after him but Romeo did not hear, or did not care to listen. 

*

Friar Lawrence was leaning over Mercutio when Romeo returned, his sword bathed in Tybalt’s blood and a low ringing in his ears. 

Benvolio looked at him with a doubled grief and the remnants of shock lingering in the corners of his eyes. “Romeo, what have you done? Romeo, you must go! Go now!”

Friar Lawrence looked up and met Romeo’s eyes, the deep lines in his face stark against the aging pale skin of his face. It had always been his kind eyes that had made Romeo trust him. And now he pleaded, silently, with the friar to give him even the smallest bit of hope. 

“He lives yet,” Friar Lawrence said, his voice low and grave, as though he was delivering the opposite news. “But we must get him off the street.”

“A surgeon is coming,” Benvolio said. 

“Wait for him here then, but this lad will bleed out if we leave him here. Romeo, help me with him.”

“Romeo, you must flee,” Benvolio said, weakly, looking helplessly between Romeo, Mercutio and the friar. 

“I’m not leaving him,” Romeo said, gathering Mercutio up in his arms. After a moment of hesitation, and a desperate look around, Benvolio hurried to help him. 

*

Night felt over Verona, heavy and humid, though cooler than could be expected at the end of July. The confines of the small convent cell, which had become Mercutio’s impromptu sickroom, smelled heavily of medicinal balms and mixtures. Adjustments were made to the standard upkeep of the room to make sure It was suitable for a relative of the Prince and the bothers of the convent held an additional service to pray for the boy’s recovery. The surgeon had come and gone, shaking his head and muttering about, “if there isn’t bleeding inside there may be some hope.” He left some instructions for Mercutio’s caretakers to follow and took all the gold Romeo and Benvolio offered. 

Romeo refused to leave Mercutio for even a moment, pleading with Friar Lawrence to let him stay, both for Mercutio’s sake and because the convent would be his only sanctuary now that Tybalt was dead. The thought of that death tortured him with guilt – for Tybalt’s life cut short, for the pain he must have caused sweet, innocent Juliet. But with Mercutio barely clinging to life, burning up with fever, Romeo did not quite have the emotional energy to dedicate to those thoughts. 

“The first night is always the worst,” Friar Lawrence told him, not unkindly, laying a hand on his shoulder. “I will pray for you both.”

“Do not bother with me, Father. I do not deserve your prayers. Let them be for Mercutio alone,” Romeo replied, his eyes not leaving Mercutio’s still, frighteningly pale face. Romeo held his hand, running a thumb over his knuckles, the skin cold to the touch, a terrible reminder of how close death was to them now, lingering just at the edge of the candlelight. 

Benvolio did not come all day, held up at the Prince’s palace to answer questions and give testimony as to the day’s events. Romeo would have appreciated his company, and he was certain Mercutio would as well, but otherwise he wished to be left alone, so when Friar Lawrence finally gave up on comforting him and left, Romeo felt a sense of relief that was perhaps ungrateful for all that the Friar was doing for them. 

“I don’t care what anyone says,” Romeo said softly, smoothing out the blanket and tucking it in tighter around Mercutio when Romeo noticed him shiver. “You’re going to get through this. We’re going to get through this, Mercutio. We always have—you always have. You’re so brave—so much braver than me.” 

Romeo bit his lip and glanced around distractedly. What could he do to help? There was so little he could do: keep Mercutio warm, change the bandaging, place a cool compress to his forehead, neck and collarbone to control the fever, put a soothing balm on his chapped lips, try to get him to drink – difficult when he was mostly unconscious. What else? Hold his hand, stroke his hair, whisper soft, soothing words when he got agitated. All such small, insignificant things in the face of the enormity of what was at stake. 

Hours slowly crawled by from evening to deep into the night. Romeo fought to keep the sleep out of his eyes, afraid that if he slept, he might miss something, that Mercutio might wake and need him and he would not be aware. But finally, fighting the urge became too difficult. Romeo sat gingerly on the edge of Mercutio’s bed and then slowly, carefully, lay down beside him. There was just barely enough space for Romeo to fit on his side and not fall off. He let got of Mercutio’s hand and slipped an arm around his waist instead, nuzzled against Mercutio’s temple, his face hidden in Mercutio’s matted curls. 

Mercutio made a soft sound, somewhere between a sigh and a whimper. The sound startled Romeo and he nearly pulled away, but Mercutio only shifted slightly, seeming to angle toward Romeo and his warmth. His skin was still too warm, though better now, after hours of Romeo’s efforts, but his breathing was even, if a little shallow. This close, Romeo could feel his heartbeat – a little faint, a little too fluttery, but inarguably there. That, at least, was a relief. “I’m here,” Romeo whispered against Mercutio’s ear. “I’m not leaving you.” 

The day’s events had worn him out, and in minutes, Romeo slept. 

*

Romeo dreamed of his childhood. Mercutio sat on the Montague garden wall, swinging his legs and grinning, his hair blowing in the soft spring breeze. “How did you get up there?” Romeo asked. 

Mercutio laughed, loud and happy. “I climbed!”

Two boys ran down the streets of Verona, down to the marketplace. They hid behind crates and wagon wheels, spied on the pedestrians and pranked the old ladies. They played tag around the fountains, tittering on the edges, almost falling in. Romeo did fall in once, the water coming up to swallow him, cool and refreshing in the day’s heat. Mercutio teetered on the fountain’s edge and giggled, hiding his mouth with one hand, a sly look in his eyes. They would ever after argue about whether Romeo fell in on his own or was pushed. When Romeo grabbed Mercutio’s wrist and pulled him down into the water as well, the look on Mercutio’s face was caught somewhere between surprise and glee. When he surfaced above the water, his hair was stuck to his forehead and half-covered his eyes. Romeo reached out and pushed it away, wiped at the droplets of water glistening on Mercutio’s smooth skin, catching the sun. and sparking as though they were diamonds.

Perhaps that only happened in the dream and not reality. Perhaps, Romeo had only laughed and splashed at Mercutio with all his strength, and they flailed around in the fountain until their minders finally found them and scolded them for running off and misbehaving. 

But in Romeo’s dream, the colors were a little brighter, a little more saturated. Mercutio’s laughter flowed like water, filled every crevice, seeped into everything. In Romeo’s dream, the tenderness he had once only felt, somewhere under the innocence of being young, or the innocence he strove to cling to when he was older, manifested in actions, perhaps even words. 

Romeo dreamed of two boys becoming three. Of wooden swords in the training yard becoming steel in the streets. He dreamed of warm libraries and mulled wine, his head in Benvolio’s lap and Mercutio throwing stones at their window, yelling, “Come on out, you two! Before I have to come and get you myself.” 

Mercutio climbed through Romeo’s window at night, all three of them on the edge of adolescence. Mercutio always had some story to tell, with his head in Romeo’s lap and Romeo’s fingers in his hair, Benvolio dozing off on Romeo’s shoulder as Mercutio talked. They shared secrets in the dark, their fears and hopes. “What if I’m not good enough for my father?” Romeo wondered, quietly, his voice small and vulnerable, ashamed to admit such doubts, ashamed to suspect a father as doting as his of such sins. 

“You’re _too_ good. For anyone,” Mercutio said, his eyes dancing in the moonlight, his expression uncharacteristically serious. 

In the throes of adolescence, Mercutio’s humor became sharper, more sarcastic; Romeo’s daydreams sweeter, more romantic, more filled with hope. It would be wrong to say they drifted from each other, but when they came too close, they often clashed, a wild firework of desire, affection, irritation, anger, and joy all bound into one feeling that glowed every time they were within reach of each other. Romeo dreamed of Mercutio’s hands in his, of Mercutio’s voice in his ear – with a joke or a drunken confession – of the warmth of Mercutio’s arms around his shoulders, Romeo’s back pressed against his chest. 

And, as though for the first time, Romeo saw a sadness in Mercutio’s eyes, lingering just around the edges, especially sharp when he looked at Romeo and thought Romeo didn’t see. Was that also only in the dream? 

*

“Romeo?” 

Romeo startled awake, shivering, despite the warmth of the room. His own named circled around and around in his head, pronounced in Mercutio’s voice, cracked and low, but absolutely recognizable. 

“Romeo?”

Romeo’s eyes snapped open. Mercutio was looking at him, a little confused and dazed. Romeo gave him a small smile. “Sorry, I fell asleep. How are you feeling?”

Mercutio winced, his face scrunching up and Romeo reached out automatically as though he could simply smooth out the pained creases in his forehead with a touch. He wanted, more than anything, to relieve the pain visible in Mercutio’s eyes. Mercutio’s forehead was warm, still feverish. It was Romeo’s turn to wince, even as Mercutio said, “Like I got stabbed, I supposed. Sore—a lot. Exhausted.” 

“You should eat something,” Romeo said. He picked up a glass of water and gently supported Mercutio’s head, bringing the glass to his lips. 

Mercutio took a few sips, coughed, and lay back down, eyes closed, clearly drained from even that bit of effort. “No, best not.” 

Romeo gnawed on his lower lip. “We can try a little later, but you need to keep up your strength.” It was probably not the best thing to say, but it tumbled out before Romeo could stop himself, “I’ve been so afraid this entire time.” He was still afraid. He knew how these fevers went: coming, then ebbing with sleep, only to come back even worse than ever, like a dark tidal wave set on eradicating all life. 

“I’m sorry—”

“No, don’t.” Romeo shook his head, reaching out to take Mercutio’s hand, squeezing it gently in his own, rubbing soothing circles into the back of Mercutio’s wrist. 

“I’m sorry for what…I said…back there. Cursing your family…pushing you away…” 

“I know you didn’t mean it.” It had stung, but Romeo was not about to bring that up now. He would forgive Mercutio anything if it meant he would be alright. 

“But I did, at that moment. I hated the whole world, then.” There was guilt and pain in Mercutio’s eyes and Romeo’s heart ached. 

“if I hadn’t gotten between you… If I hadn’t refused Tybalt’s challenge…” He swallowed, knowing what he had to say, that it was true, but feeling bile at the back of his throat for having to admit it. _If I hadn’t gotten involved with Juliet Capulet._ But did Tybalt really know about that? Had he seen them kiss? Or was he simply angry that Romeo had been there at all? “This is all my fault.”

“You were only trying to make peace. Like you always do, you idealistic little shit.” Mercutio tried to smile and it came out pained and strange, so unlike his normal, easy grin. 

Romeo gave a small, self-deprecating laugh, ran a hand through Mercutio’s hair, then again, stroking it away from Mercutio’s face and temples. Mercutio leaned into the touch, like a cat searching for warmth. “You’re going to be alright,” Romeo murmured. “We’re going to take care of you, and you’re going to be alright.”

“Where are we anyway?” 

“At the convent. Friar Lawrence helped us. The surgeon said it won’t be safe to move you for some time.” 

Mercutio gave an emphatic sigh, the effect of which was marred by the immediate coughing fit it caused. Romeo reached for a clean linen cloth and the water basis. “You’re going to have to take it easy, I’m afraid,” he teased, wiggling his eyebrows at Mercutio. He soaked the cloth and put it over Mercutio’s forehead. 

Mercutio shivered and tried to bat his hand aside. “That’s bloody cold.” 

“Don’t argue with me. It’s good for your fever.”

“Bossy, bossy—fuck.”

“What?”

“Nothing.” 

It wasn’t nothing. Romeo could see the lines of pain around his mouth and his eyes, hear the hoarse tension in his voice. “It will hurt less if you lie still,” he said, hoping his tone would convey even a fraction of the tenderness he felt in that moment. The last church bell he had heard had struck five, the few candles in the room were burning low, and outside the dawn was starting to color the sky a faint dusky blue. “In another half hour or so I can give you the draught the surgeon said would help with the pain, But not until then.” 

“Alright. Fine…Thank you.”

“it’s nothing at all. Try to get a little more sleep, alright?” 

For some time, they were quiet, as Romeo worked methodically. He knew what his friends – everyone, really – thought of his abilities to be practical and responsible. Oh, Romeo, the sweet but airheaded one. But he could be very serious when it came to taking care of someone he loved and he knew, in that moment as acutely as he ever might have, that he loved Mercutio dearly. 

“Romeo?”

“Yes?”

“If I die—”

“Don’t. You’re not going to die.”

“If I do, though, promise me something?”

There was a lump stuck in Romeo’s throat and he could barely speak past it. “Anything.”

“Don’t let anyone put roses on my grave. It’s so cliché. And I’m bloody allergic…” 

It took Romeo a moment to process the words and another to keep himself from smacking Mercutio with the damp linen cloth. “Asshole,” he mumbled instead, trying to keep the fond smile that tugged at him despite the wave of frustration from his voice. “I’ll murder you myself.” 

“I prefer poison. Suffocation takes too long.”

Romeo groaned. He was too tired for this. “ _Mercutio._ ”

The ghost of a smile flickered across Mercutio’s face before it was wiped away by a new wave of pain. 

Suddenly overcome by an unmanageable tenderness, Romeo leaned down and kissed his forehead. “You’re impossible. Go to sleep.”

Continuing his ministration, Romeo thought back on his dream, brimming as it had been with memories of their childhood together. Mercutio had been everything to him since Romeo could remember. Mercutio had also always been the brave one, the strong one. Romeo was always the one who was afraid, easily upset by seemingly silly things, with a penchant of getting himself hurt. Even now, Mercutio was holding up admirably, swallowing down the pain that was sending visible shivers over his body and making his voice tight and fragile when he spoke. Romeo had only the vaguest idea of what he was supposed to do, following the scant instructions the surgeon had rattled out and following what instincts he had on the matter. Even if he made little difference, he was determined to do all he could. 

He had thought, before – foolishly, oh so foolishly – that what would make his life complete would be a woman’s love. That love had found a manifestation in sweet, beautiful Juliet who professed her love for him so freely. Him, a boy whom everyone praised for his grace and goodness but no girl ever saw much appeal in. He was nowhere near the dashing hero he hoped to be and that maidens dreamed of. He was shy and prone to seeking solitude, too pliant, too emotional. But Juliet had looked at him and seen a man worth having. It had been a heady wine, a quality opioid. He was grateful to her for that love and he cherished her sweet heart. 

But the lesson he had learned on the cobbled, blood-soaked street of Verona the day before seemed to have seared that love from his soul, banished the veil of adolescent daydreams, ripping away the concocted fantasy in his mind. He could not escape what he had felt in those moments when he thought Mercutio had been taken from him, when his dearest friend lay unconscious in his arms, slipping away. Mercutio was the constant sun that had bathed his world for so long, that Romeo had taken it for granted. 

He could live without a woman’s love. He had done so before. He could live without Juliet, even, though the thought of her smile still warmed his chest. After all, he had lived without her for years before meeting her, and it had only been a day that he had known her. She was like a shooting star – painfully beautiful and mesmerizing, but her appearance in the skyscape of his life brief and fleeting, almost like a dream. He could live without it all if he tried hard enough. 

_I could not live without_ you, _Merc_ , Romeo thought, looking into Mercutio’s face as he drifted into sleep, the tight lines of pain in his face smoothing out slowly. The realization was painful and terrifying, yet familiar, like a childhood memory of a boy with a quicksilver smile convincing Romeo to jump into haystacks from the barn roof. 

*

Benvolio came to see them at mid-morning. He looked tired and worried, like he had hardly slept. Mercutio was asleep, worn out by the ordeal of the surgeon’s morning visit and the last bandage change, so Benvolio interrogated Romeo instead. 

“It’s better news than it was yesterday, but nothing will be certain until the fever breaks, which could take some time. A few days, but could be a couple of weeks or longer,” Romeo finished. 

“Poor thing,” Benvolio mumbled, but his thoughts were elsewhere by that point. 

“Tell me what happened yesterday,” Romeo said. “Is Tybalt truly…?” He couldn’t finish the sentence. It felt too enormous to say, too horrifying. He could not even say that he had wanted Tybalt’s death, only that the grief and anger when he thought Mercutio was gone had overwhelmed him and he had seen nothing but Tybalt’s arrogant face and felt nothing but the desire to wipe that look away, twist it into the same pain Romeo had been feeling. Now, in the light of day, with Mercutio’s even breathing beside him, Romeo felt guilty and disgusted with himself. 

“Yes,” Benvolio said, the words catching in his throat and coming out choked. “He’s dead. The Capulets…the Capulets are all in mourning. The Prince is livid. I and your parents were there all day yesterday, petitioning.”

“Does he know about Mercutio? How bad it is?”

“Of course. I told him everything; I swore an oath…” Benvolio put both hands on Romeo’s shoulders. “The Prince said he would wait until there was certainly as to whether Mercutio would live or die before he pronounces his sentence.” Benvolio glanced over Romeo’s shoulder at Mercutio’s still form. “I pray to God Mercutio lives and is soon well. Do not fault me for this, as I know you do the same. But it does not bode well for you.”

“I would fault you if you did otherwise,” Romeo said, shaking his head and biting his lip hard enough for it to bleed. “I would gladly die if it meant Mercutio will be alright. Do you suspect me--?”

“No!” Benvolio did not even bother to let him finish, and Romeo read the sincerity in his friend’s eyes. “You are too selfless for such a thing. But, sweet coz, if our prayers are answered… I fear for you.” 

Romeo’s shoulders slumped and he leaned tiredly into Benvolio. Benvolio wrapped him up into an embrace and they stood there for a few moments, clinging to each other. “I probably deserve it,” Romeo mumbled into Benvolio’s shoulder. “Whatever the Prince’s punishment will be. As long as it is delayed until I know for certain that Mercutio is alright…as long as I get to stay with him until he is strong enough to take the news of whatever happens to me well… I will face the Prince’s justice as a man ought to. I will.” Romeo wasn’t certain if he was trying to convince himself or Benvolio. Most of all, he wanted to cry. 

Benvolio held him closer. “I know you will if you must. But we’ll do everything to make sure it isn’t all so terrible. The Prince can be merciful. You didn’t start that fight. We thought Mercutio was gone from us. And-and, he will need to testify. I’m certain someone as good and charming with words as Mercutio will have something up his sleeve.”

Romeo had little faith in such fortune, but he appreciated the comfort and hummed in acquiescence into Benvolio’s shoulder. 

Benvolio drew back so he could look into Romeo’s face. “Go get some sleep. It isn’t very safe for you to leave the convent for the Capulets are impatient and roaming for revenge. Nor would I put it past the Prince to have you arrested and put in a cell to await trial. But Friar Lawrence said that the brothers here will find a cot and a meal for you. Go rest.”

Romeo began to protest but Benvolio held up a hand to stop him. 

“I will stay with Mercutio. He will be alright, I promise. You need to rest, Romeo. It’s a long road ahead of us.” 

Romeo was too tired to argue. He gave Mercutio one last look, squeezed Benvolio’s shoulder in thanks, and went to find Friar Lawrence. 

*

This time, when Romeo slept, his dreams were full of blood and withered roses, broken promises and broken glass. 

*

When Romeo woke, dusk had already settled over the city. There was no candle in the small, cramped space, but he had not bothered to undress, so there was little need for much light.

Friar Lawrence grew in the doorway like a shadow, holding a candle and a letter. “This came for you whilst you were sleeping, my son. The Capulets' nurse brought it. I suspect it is from the Lady Juliet.” The Friar gave Romeo a long, searching look even as Romeo reached for the letter, his heart pounding. 

“Thank you, Father,” he said, prying open the seal. “She writes. It’s a blessing she writes.” The words tasted foreign in his mouth, his head still full of the pain from his last dream, as though phantom blood could wash away all previous feeling.

Friar Lawrence set down the candle. “I am to Vespers now.”

“I thank you for your kindness, Father,” Romeo said, forcing a smile. He had known Friar Lawrence since early childhood and it felt strange to be so compelled to keep his heart from his confessor, but Romeo did not know what he would say if he even was to go to confession then. His own feelings were too confused, too muddled. Too full of grief and fear and tenderness of a sort that he did not think he had felt before and which, yet, was so familiar. 

Romeo read the letter, his eyes tracing over Juliet’s neat, loopy cursive. He could see where her hand shook and could read the bitterness and anger between the polite lines and pleading words. He understood that she was angry: she had risked her father's ire by sneaking out to marry him and he had abandoned her, killed her beloved cousin, had not sought her company since then. And nonetheless, she still wanted to see him, telling him to meet her on the edge of the Capulet gardens that night, in the rose orchard, where the vines wove over the brick walls and made for good climbing aids. 

He had to see her, Romeo decided. He owed her that. He would look in on Mercutio and then slip into the streets, with night as his cover, and rush to see his bride. _If she is still my bride at all._

*

Benvolio met him at the door, his expression pinched and his posture a little defensive, a little defeated. 

“I have important business on which I must go while it is dark and safest,” Romeo told him hurriedly. “But first, tell me: how is Mercutio?” Something about Benvolio’s expression made a heavy dread settle into the pit of Romeo’s stomach. 

Benvolio ran a hand through his hair, looked away as to not meet Romeo’s eyes. “Not so well. The fever is bad, and he’s been delirious since…”

“Since what? Benvolio, tell me true, what’s happened?”

Benvolio looked guilty, frantic. “The surgeon came again around midday and, seeing me, mentioned Tybalt’s death and asked if you were arrested and that was the reason for your absence. Mercutio made me tell him everything… I tried to soften the blow, but he understood and perhaps imagined some too. I got him to calm but his fever has only been getting worse since then. He’s been asking for you…” Benvolio reached for him but Romeo shrugged him off. 

“Why did you not send for me?” He shouldered past Benvolio into the small sickroom, feeling nauseous and helpless and guilty. Benvolio was saying something in justification behind him, but Romeo did not hear, all his attention focused on Mercutio. 

He looked both better and worse than the night before. If previously he had been deathly still and pale, now he tossed feverishly, his cheeks an unhealthy, blooming red. He was mumbling something incoherent, the cool compress on his forehead askew and his shirt soaked with sweat. Romeo crossed the room in two long strides and perched on the edge of the chair by Mercutio’s bed, taking his hand into both of his. “Mercutio? Mercutio, can you hear me? It’s me; it’s Romeo.”

Mercutio stilled for a moment, as though responding to Romeo’s voice, turned toward the sound and Romeo’s touch. His eyes were open but glassy, unseeing. He seemed to look straight through Romeo. “Romeo...”

“Yes, it’s me—”

“Send for Romeo….”

“Mercutio, it’s me. I’m right here.” Romeo looked back at Benvolio frantically. “He doesn’t…recognize me?” Mercutio was squeezing his hand, mumbling his name, but clearly not registering that Romeo was there. _No, no this is worse than last night,_ Romeo thought in horror. He lifted one hand to Mercutio’s face, gently stroking his cheek and his temples, hoping that the gentle, rhythmic caresses would sooth him at least a little. “I’m here. It’s alright. Everything’s alright. Mercutio. I’m right here.” 

“Romeo,” Benvolio said tentatively behind him, his voice tight. “We need a medic. A doctor if not a surgeon… We need help.” 

“Yes,” Romeo agreed, without taking his eyes off Mercutio. “Could you send for one?”

There was a moment of uncomfortable silence. “Everyone is at Vespers. I’d have to go myself, but I don’t want to leave him.” 

“No, of course not. I’ll stay.”

Another beat. “What about your business? What was it anyway? Something I could help take care of?”  
_  
Damn it._ Romeo looked back at Benvolio and a small, choked sound broke free from his chest. How could he forget the meeting with Juliet? It would be easier if Benvolio knew, but Romeo had no idea how to tell him everything, especially now. He knew, deep down, that the only way to set things straight with Juliet was to keep the rendezvous with her that night. She would not forgive him another such slight and she would be right. But Mercutio needed him. Needed him desperately. 

For a moment, Romeo hung on the precipice of the rest of his life, not bothering to hide the conflict that had to be reflected on his face from Benvolio. 

Then he turned back to Mercutio and said, flatly, but with unmistakable determination, “Go, Benvolio. I will stay here.”

Benvolio went and came. The doctor came and went. The convent’s inhabitants returned from Vespers. Soon enough, nothing truly held Romeo back from slipping unseen through the streets of Verona and into the Capulets’ garden. Nothing, but how tightly Mercutio held onto his hand. Nothing, but the fact that Mercutio still whispered his name in delirium and that the only thing that seemed to sooth him was the sound of Romeo’s voice. 

"He loves you," Benvolio said, a hand on Romeo's shoulder, and at Romeo's searching look, repeated, "He _loves_ you."

And Romeo knew. 

*

In the morning, Romeo wrote Juliet a letter to say goodbye. 

*

Romeo stood in the hallway outside Mercutio’s room, his arms full of pastries that he had managed to get off the baker before he opened shop for the day and fruit stolen from orchards along the way. Two weeks of worry and, what felt like, endless gold spent on surgeons, doctors and apothecaries later, Mercutio’s health was finally improving and the doctors began saying that he was likely to make a full recovery. Romeo and Benvolio still took turns staying with him, both to take care of him and to keep him company as he became more and more restless as his condition improved. 

When Romeo snuck out in the hour before dawn to acquire some treats to surprise Mercutio with, he had not thought to return to find the latter in a half-whispered argument with Benvolio. Hearing his own name, Romeo stopped just outside the door and listened. 

“This is madness,” Benvolio was saying. “There were witnesses. I have already told the Prince that Romeo is responsible for Tybalt’s death. It will be clear as day that you are lying.”

“You were mistaken about what you thought you saw because everything happened so fast.”

“Mercutio—”

“I can’t let Romeo be punished for something I started. The Prince will not be so keen to punish me as I am of his blood, though we may not be very close.” 

“Which is only more reason for him to not believe your story. Not to mention the politics of it—”

Mercutio groaned loud enough for Romeo to hear, his derision for politics apparent. 

“Don’t roll your eyes at me,” Benvolio snapped. “You know it’s true. The Prince must consider that the Capulets are out for blood. Montague blood. Seeing you get a light punishment, in view of your wounding, based on clear perjury when the responsible Montague walks free is likely to cause a riot.” 

“Well what do you suggest I do? Nothing? While Romeo is arrested and—and—” 

“Hush. You’re going to make your wound bleed again—”

“I don’t care-“

“I care, damn it.” A pause, and finally Benvolio said, tiredly. “You are in no shape to testify at a formal trial yet anyway. I will try to put them off until you’re stronger, and perhaps we can think of something by then.”

Romeo, feeling sick to his stomach and unable to listen further, pushed open the door and looked inside. Both Benvolio and Mercutio looked around at him, startled, their expressions slightly guilty as they both avoided Romeo’s eyes. “Good morning,” Romeo said, slipping into the room and looking around uncertainly, acting like he had not heard their conversation. Mercutio was sitting up in bed, propped up on some pillows while Benvolio stood by the far window, his posture defensive. “I did not expect you to be awake already. Is everything…alright?” He looked straight at Mercutio who, having had a few seconds to gather himself, looked back at him with a blank expression. 

“I just couldn’t sleep. Did you bring me presents?” 

Romeo couldn’t help but smile at the spark in Mercutio’s eyes. He was growing deathly tired of the plain meals of the convent’s monks. “Yes. If you promise to behave.” Romeo set down the fruit and pastries on the small table and gave Mercutio a wink, tossing one of the tangerines up in the air and catching it again. 

“Behave is a rather vague concept…”

“You definitely haven’t been behaving,” Benvolio muttered, leaning against the wall. 

“Oh gosh, Benvolio, thanks.” 

Benvolio smirked, walked over to the table and snagged one of the tangerines, ignoring Romeo’s mock protests. 

“You’re not _actually_ going to make me get up and go over there are you?” Mercutio gave Romeo his best pleading look. The distance was barely two paces, but Mercutio’s strength was still so diminished that even sitting up took effort. 

Romeo smirked. “First, tell me what you two were plotting here while I was away.”  
Mercutio put on an offended expression. “Sweet Romeo, would I ever plot behind your back?”

“Yes,” Romeo and Benvolio said in unison. 

Mercutio gave Benvolio a look which was a little too genuinely shocked and worried to be funny. “But we weren’t plotting,” Benvolio said with a shrug. “Mercutio was just being, well, himself.”

“Ah. I see.”

“And there has been some news,” Benvolio added, ignoring the glare from Mercutio. 

“Tell me,” Romeo said, walking over to sit on the edge of Mercutio’s bed. He peeled the tangerine, broke it in half and offered both halves to Mercutio, smiling. Their hands brushed as Mercutio took them. Their eyes met and, for a second, Romeo’s breath caught at the strange warmth that spilled in his chest. He’d spent the last two weeks taking care of Mercutio, but somehow something as simple as a peeled tangerine still made Mercutio look at him _like that_ and made Romeo feel like he was home. 

Benvolio cleared his throat. “Alright. You two can make kissy eyes at each other later. This is serious.” 

Mercutio looked away immediately, uncharacteristically embarrassed. Romeo reached for another tangerine, peeling it mechanically as he listened. 

“Our gold is no longer effective,” Benvolio said, lowering his voice. “The Prince has been informed – maybe by the surgeon, maybe someone else – that Mercutio is on the way to recovering and death is no longer an immediate menace to him. Therefore, there is no loner reason to delay your trial, Romeo. And I have had it from a reliable source that the Capulets will petition the Prince today to issue a warrant for your arrest and to have the trial as soon as possible.”

Romeo bit the inside of his cheek and fought to force down the surge of panic that made everything inside him grow cold. He had known this was coming, but he had been so focused on Mercutio the entire time, that he had managed to not think about his own future, to simply forget. Now, reality was catching up to him and sheer terror filled him up to the brim. The tangerine he had just finished peeling nearly tumbled out of his hand. “Oh,” Romeo said blankly. 

Mercutio caught the tangerine with one hand and took Romeo’s hand with the other. “Benvolio and I were talking about what we ought to do…” 

“What can we do?” Romeo said flatly. “Will the brothers here give me sanctuary?”

“Friar Lawrence is on our side,” Benvolio said. “But if the Prince starts putting pressure on the convent… And, anyway, you cannot live here forever.”

“No, of course not.” Romeo looked up at Mercutio and met his eyes. “But let’s not do anything foolish.” 

A hint of suspicion flashed in Mercutio’s expression, but it was soon gone. He bit into the tangerine and squeezed Romeo’s hand. 

“I will go to ask the Prince to delay the trial until Mercutio is fit to testify at least,” Benvolio said. “But I have no good ideas just yet.” 

“We’ll try to think of some,” Mercutio said, the edges of his tone hard. He exchanged a look with Benvolio that Romeo imagined had something to do with their conversation before he came in, but it was not plainly readable. 

Benvolio grabbed a pastry from the table. “I must go. Pray for good fortune.” He squeezed Romeo’s shoulder briefly and left. 

Romeo rang for tea, though neither he nor Mercutio were particularly hungry anymore.

*

Benvolio burst into Mercutio’s room just as the sun was going down, startling both Romeo and Mercutio. Romeo dropped the book he had been reading aloud. Friar Lawrence followed close behind Benvolio, holding a lantern and muttering a prayer. 

“Romeo, you must leave!” was the first thing Benvolio managed to say after catching his breath. 

“What?” Romeo and Mercutio chorused. They exchanged panicked looks as Romeo stood up. “What happened, Ben?”

Benvolio looked close to tears. He pulled Romeo into a quick embrace, then stepped back and held onto his shoulders, looking into his face. “The Prince has caved to pressure from the Capulets. He decided to not hear from Mercutio at all as there were so many other witnesses to his fight with Tybalt. I tried to send word here, but things happened too fast. The Prince held trial today—”

“ _Today_?” Mercutio sputtered as Romeo froze, his mind going blank. “How can that be? Without any warning? And why should I not have the chance to testify? _Romeo_ should have gotten a chance to testify! This isn’t fair.” 

Benvolio was not listening. “Romeo, there’s a warrant for your arrest. You must leave.” 

“Where to?”

Benvolio shook his head. “I don’t know… Mantua? We have relatives there, don’t we?”

“You mean leave Verona?” 

“He wouldn’t be able to come back!” Mercutio protested. 

“And if he stays here, he’s _dead_ ,” Benvolio snapped. The room fell silent. Romeo stared at Benvolio with rising horror. Benvolio swallowed and refused to meet Romeo’s eyes as he continued. “The Prince was not swayed by the circumstances. He said…he said that the Capulets and Montagues have cost the city enough—It doesn’t matter. He had his fucking reasons and he…Romeo, it’s the death penalty.” 

Mercutio made a loud, strangled sound, but Romeo was still staring at Benvolio as before. The shock of the realization that he was going to die swept over him, momentarily numbing all his senses. In flashes, he saw it all: the gallows, his mother’s tear-streaked face, his father’s shame, Benvolio and Mercutio clutching at each other as Benvolio prayed and Mercutio shouted about _the injustice of it all,_ barely managing to keep his feet. And the darkness that would come after. And then—would God condemn him then?

Benvolio let out a quiet sob, his hands starting to shake even as he held onto Romeo. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry, I tried. We all tried to make him understand—” 

Romeo’s knees buckled and he would have collapsed if Benvolio was not holding onto him Benvolio wrapped both arms around his waist and guided him gently to the floor. “Romeo,” he repeated, frantic again, “You don’t have much time. You have to go.” 

“Flee like a coward?” Romeo laughed. It came out bitter and hysterical. “Like a common criminal? My father would die of shame.”

“Fuck your father. This is your _life_ we’re talking about. You don’t deserve to die. You don’t—Please don’t be a fool.”

“I’d never be able to get out of the city unnoticed…” Romeo felt the tears sting his eyes, tried to blink them back. He wiped at his face and tried to pull himself together. The most he could do was face his fate with dignity and spare his friends at least the pain of watching him fall apart. 

“There is a way,” Friar Lawrence spoke up from the doorway. “There are secret passages under the convent. Only the brothers know about them. I have a map that can guide you through them and beyond the city walls.” 

Romeo looked up. “Father, you will help me in this? To flee the Prince’s justice?” 

Friar Lawrence sighed and gave Romeo a long look. “I have known you since you could walk. I have watched you in church and out. I have heard you at Confession many a time. Your heart it pure. This sentence is far too harsh, though your misdeed was great. But this city being what it is…only God can truly judge.” 

Romeo slowly found his feet again. Benvolio was still holding onto his arm. “Please, Romeo, I beg you,” Benvolio said, in a voice barely above a whisper. “Run and start over. Somewhere else. Somewhere better than here.” 

Romeo nodded numbly, his head reeling. A part of him felt like he deserved to die. A part of him felt like exile would be worse than death. It was only when Mercutio spoke that he understood why. 

“I’m coming with you.” 

They all turned to see that Mercutio had gotten out of bed and was fumbling around in an attempt to locate his hose and doublet. Romeo immediately shook his head. “No, no. You can’t.”

“I can and I will,” Mercutio said stubbornly, holding on to one of the bedposts to steady himself. 

“Mercutio, you can barely stand. You can’t go anywhere right now,” Benvolio reasoned, and Romeo nodded along in agreement. 

“I’ll manage.” 

Romeo shook his head and closed the space between them in two long strides. He wrapped his arms around Mercutio’s waist and looked into his face. “Even if you could, I wouldn’t let you.” 

“What is that supposed to—”

“Listen to me.” Romeo reached up and stroked loose curls out of Mercutio’s face. “If I go now, there will be no coming back for me. It will be forever.”

“That’s exactly why I have to go with you—”

“No. If you come with me, you probably won’t be able to return either. The Prince will likely charge you with some crime as well. Treason? Aiding and abating? I don’t know. Maybe you could still come back since the Prince is your close relative. But maybe not. I can’t risk that, and you shouldn’t risk that. Not for me.”

Mercutio shook his head slowly. His eyes were dark and pained, but it was a different sort of pain than Romeo had seen in the past couple of weeks. This pain came of no physical wound and Romeo suspected he himself looked much the same. “I would do anything for you. I can’t lose you—”

“Maybe we can still find a way to see each other someday.” 

“I’d rather die than lose you.” Mercutio rested his forehead against Romeo’s, his breath hot against Romeo’s lips. “Anything is better than being without you.” 

“I will muss you a lot too,” Romeo said, his throat closing up. It was hard to breath. “But you can’t—you shouldn’t leave everything for me. And you’re in no shape to go.” 

“I’ll plead with my uncle. I’ll say…I’ll say that I stabbed Tybalt. I’ll get others to chance their testimony. I’ll—”

Romeo kissed him to make him stop. 

Or, perhaps, to sate the burning feeling in his chest that seemed to have grown stronger and stronger lately with every passing day, each time he and Mercutio touched. 

Or, perhaps, to simply say goodbye in the most intimate way he knew how. 

It was a brief kiss – gentle and tender, and just a little too long to be strictly that of brothers. Mercutio’s lips parted under his willingly and he whimpered unhappily when Romeo drew back, flushed and all too aware of Friar Lawrence watching them. 

It was a sin to desire a man as one would a woman. But it was also a sin to kill and Romeo had killed. Surely, a chaste kiss was no worse.

“Don’t be a fool,” Romeo whispered.

Mercutio’s hands had come to rest on the small of Romeo’s back and at the nape of his neck. Their faces were still so close that their noses touched, and Romeo could feel Mercutio’s breath against his lips. He thought he could feel Mercutio’s heartbeat, but perhaps that was only his own – beating wildly as though his heart might jump from his chest at any moment. “Do you love me, Romeo?”

A commotion in the distance, coming from the convent’s entrance gate, drowned out any answer Romeo might have given. “That must be the guards,” Friar Lawrence said gravely. “You must go, Romeo, if you are to get away.” 

Romeo pulled Mercutio close one last time. He squeezed his eyes shut and tried to memorize what it was like to feel so warm, safe, and loved. He did not think he would ever feel that way again. 

After a few moments, they untangled from each other, both deathly pale. Benvolio came up and embraced Romeo as well, pressing a purse of coin into his hands – “This is all I have. There was no time to get more.” The three of them bid farewell in the dying light, memorizing each others faces one last time, as though they did not already know every line by heart. 

Romeo went, each step feeling like a knife between his ribs. He heard, more than saw, Mercutio collapse into Benvolio’s arms. 

*

Of all the tragedies Romeo might have expected to experience in his life, he did not think bone-deep loneliness would be one of them. Not him, surrounded as he always had been by doting family and loyal friends. 

In Mantua, all his physical needs were met, but the loneliness and yearning for home, for the people he loved, seeped deep into his bones, emptied him out of all emotion. He was afraid to write and never received letters. He felt himself torn from the world and unable to connect with any other part of it than the one he had always known. 

Sometimes, he woke up feeling like his lips were burning, the ghost of the kiss he gave Mercutio lingering and refusing to move on. But he could never remember dreaming of Mercutio. He could never remember dreaming of anything at all. 

In Matua, all of Romeo’s dreams were emptiness. 

*

When they met, as though by chance, outside of Romeo’s great-uncle’s townhouse, Romeo initially thought he had gone mad. 

Mercutio’s voice calling his name was like something from a dream. Turning around and seeing him standing there, holding a horse by the reins with a serving man and a trunk of belonging in tow, was like having a bucket of cold water emptied over his head on a hot day – shocking, but pleasantly so. 

“Did you miss me?” Mercutio asked, his familiar smirk making the corners of his eyes crinkle. 

Romeo ran to embrace him, deciding he did not care if it was a delusion.

*

“I thought I told you not to follow me?” Romeo tried his best to sound frustrated, but it was terribly difficult when he was practically vibrating with joy. 

Mercutio, perched on the wide windowsill of Romeo’s bedroom, shrugged noncommittally. “I didn’t help you escape. I didn’t escape with you. I am a free man and can go where I please.” 

“I still can’t believe you’re here.” Romeo poured them a glass of whine each and went to sit beside Mercutio. “Tell me of Verona. How is everyone? My parents? Benvolio?”

Mercutio told him. About the Prince’s decision to not pursue him outside Verona walls. About his parents’ grief but gratitude for his safety and that Lord Montage had made Benvolio an official Montague heir. “I don’t know the details,” Mercutio said, “But I think Ben is meant to inherit all land and such that your father has in Verona and be the head of the Montague family after his death. You’ll get all their gold and such.” Mercutio told him about the unrest in Verona’s streets directly after his escape, but that everything had calmed, relatively, since then. About sweet Juliet, and that she had written to Benvolio in secret, stating a desire to work with him for peace in loving memory of her slain cousin, “ _so that no family should know such keen and utter grief for petty reason ever again.”_ About his own adventures – and _mis_ adventures – during a tedious three-month recovery. 

“And now I’m here,” Mercutio finished, gulping down the rest of his wine. 

“How long will you stay? Has Benvolio thought to visit? Will you take a letter back for me?” Romeo laughed. “I’m sorry – there’s just so much so say, to ask…I’ve been so lonely here without you. I know I could – I should – make new friends. But…” 

Mercutio held up a hand. “We’ve missed you terribly as well. I’m sure Ben will come visit when there’s a good moment. He’s had to adjust a lot. But as for the rest…” Mercutio looked back into his empty glass. “Romeo, I’ve come to stay. Or rather…I’ve come for as long as you’ll have me.” 

__“You’ve…come to stay with me? Here? Away from everything and everyone…?”

“Yes. I’ll miss Ben. My brother, some, I suppose. But that’s about all I’ll miss about Verona.” 

“Mercutio, I…” _Gratitude_ wasn’t a strong enough word for the overwhelming tidal wave of emotions that was sweeping Romeo under, tying his stomach into knots and making his eyes fill with tears. Happiness and guilt battled within him. It would be selfish to tell Mercutio to stay in exile with him, but was it truly so bad if Mercutio had come all this way of his own accord? 

“Listen,” Mercutio continued, still not quite meeting Romeo’s eyes. “Montagues, Capulets…in Verona, no one was really safe. Sooner or later, you got pulled into the bloody feud. Either you were born into one of the families, worked for one of them, or loved someone belonging to them. Everyone had to choose a side. Here, there’s no feud, no sides. We can simply _live_ and _be_ and have our own side. One just for the two of us and it need not harm anyone. You look so very surprised right now, like a startled baby owl. I didn’t think a human’s eyes could go so wide. But, truly, Romeo…” Mercutio reached out and took his hands, finally meeting his eyes. “I want to stay here. I want to be where you are.” There was a sudden vulnerability in his voice that Romeo wasn’t used to. 

Romeo swallowed and looked into Mercutio’s face, read his heart in his eyes. He leaned in and touched their foreheads together like Mercutio had done on the day they had parted. “I want you to stay. More than anything in the world.” He freed one hand from Mercutio’s grasp and used it to cup Mercutio’s face. 

Mercutio swallowed visibly. “Play not with me, Romeo.” Mercutio’s voice was barely a whisper, hoarse and just on the edge of pleading. “My heartstrings could not bear a puppetry so cruel…”

“I am no puppet master, or do you know me not at all?” Romeo smiled and stroked a thumb over his cheek. 

“Do you love me, then? As I love you?” 

Instead of answering, Romeo leaned in and kissed him. This time, Mercutio was faster to respond, immediately wrapping himself around Romeo and returning the kiss with all the force of years of pent up passion. When they finally drew back, they were both gasping for breath. “Stay,” Romeo whispered hurriedly, as though in delirium. “Stay with me forever.” 

“Yes,” Mercutio said, a hint of laughter returning to his voice. “Forever. Until Queen Mab takes us all.” 


End file.
